


How They Become

by fineandwittie



Series: The Timeline of a Love Story [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Internalized Homophobia, Languages, M/M, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darya Kuryakin has long since learned that not everything is what is seems. She knows to shut her mouth and wait things out. She'd understand in the end. </p><p>After all, all she ever wanted was for her son Illya to be happy and safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How They Become

Darya Kuryakin has always done whatever it took to keep her family safe. This is how she ends up stepping off a plane in London, fully prepared never to see her homeland again. Her son is waiting, still and expressionless and yet clearly anxious for all that. There is a man at his left and a very small woman at his right. She goes over to them, handing her bag off to Illya immediately.

“Mother,” He says in Russian. “I would like you to meet my partners, Napoleon Solo and Gaby Teller.”

The man is devastatingly handsome, tall without towering and with a spark of mischief in his lovely blue eyes. His smile makes her heart flutter. She blinks and fights the urge to slap herself. He’s clearly near Illya’s age. She’s old enough to be his mother.

His voice is a lovely rumble. “Mrs. Kuryakin,” He murmured in perfectly accented Russian. “It’s an absolute honor to get to meet you. You raised an astonishingly talented son.”

She cocks her head at this, feeling flustered and suddenly off balance. Illya flushes and swats the man on the back of the head. “Cowboy,” He says, in English this time. “Stop flirting with my mother.”

Solo grins, wide and toothy. “Now, Peril, would I do that?”

They are using nicknames. Dara frowns. The small woman steps forward, rolling her eyes. “Mrs. Kuryakin, I’d like to apologize for these two idiots. Your son is usually quite as well mannered as a mother could hope. Solo seems to bring out the child in everyone he meets.” This woman is also speaking Russian, though not quite so well.

Darya recalls the rages that had landed her Illyushenka into trouble more than once and wonders if they’ve finally passed. “Well, I would say that I have heard all about you, but Illyushenka has not contacted me in several years, so I cannot.”

Illya flushes harder, whether from the diminutive or the implied censure, she can’t be sure. 

“Contact behind the Iron Curtain is hardly easy and almost always suspicious, especially for someone like me, Mother. You know this.” Illya’s tone is apologetic. Solo moves half a step closer to him, bumping their shudders together.

She narrows her eyes, ignoring the questions that that action raises. “Someone like you?”

“I am…effectively a traitor. I defected to the West. I was…Oleg said, seduced by the Capitalist agenda.”

“Is that what it was?” Teller murmurs, shooting an amused glance at Solo, who glares back. Illya ignores them.

Darya sniffs. “Well. Let’s see what the capitalist agenda has to offer, if it’s so seductive.”

Teller chokes, wheezing out a laugh, and Solo’s high cheekbones are abruptly dusted with red. It’s quite an attractive look and one, judging by his silky greeting, that is rare. Illya bites his lip, obviously making a great effort not to laugh. She does not understand, but perhaps one of them will explain.

She is led to a very large car and taken to a very large apartment. There are two bedrooms and a living room and it is apparently all for her. She likes this capitalist agenda.

As the three help her settle in, she watches them interact. She knows her son. She knows how he acts around a variety of people. Teller is a dear friend, that much is obvious. But she has never seen him interact with anyone like he does with Solo. There is featherlight touches and lingering looks, each invading the other’s personal space more than is warranted by the rearranging of furniture.

Teller finally leaves as the sun dips below the skyline. Solo disappears into the kitchen, saying something about making dinner. 

Darya turns to Illya and stares hard. He looks startled. 

“Who is this man? This Solo?” She speaks German, thinking vaguely of Solo’s close proximity. 

Illya blinks and frowns, responding in kind. “Napoleon? He is my partner at work. Formerly the CIA’s best agent. Or so I’m told. I am not certain I believe it.”

“I heard that, you liar.” Solo’s voice floats in from the other room. She starts to realize that he can speak German also. The man clearly has a talented tongue. Her heart flutters, even as concern gathers in her stomach. “You know I’m the best. Don’t even try to say otherwise.”

Illya laughs, switching to English. “You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy. But a very good cook, so get on with it, da?”

Solo laughs, low and throaty and it’s a bit like a punch to the gut. Darya swallows against the desire that the sound conjures. She hasn’t felt this way in a very long time. Illya is watching her with a curious look in his eye. He smiles when she meets his gaze. “Don’t worry, Mother. He has that effect on everyone.”

She frowns. “What effect?”

Illya huffs and his shoulders slump a little, like he doesn’t want to have to elaborate. After a moment, he answers in Russian. “He is…very handsome and he has a very nice voice. He is also an inveterate flirt. Every woman we meet seems to be…attracted to him. Even Gaby. Even at the beginning, when he wanted to stab her eyes out with a fork and she thought he was the lowest scum on the earth.”

“Well, that’s certainly an interesting way to put it. You are very expressive in Russian, Illyushka.” Napoleon reappears, standing in the doorway with a soft smile on his face. 

Darya is jarred by his use of the diminutive. Is he mocking Illya? Would Illya allow such a thing? What else could…? But the concern has turned to a sinking suspicion and she thinks that the name is not meant to mock at all.

“Illya, who is Solo to you?”

Solo waits, looking at Illya. His face is now utterly blank. His eyes hollow and empty. There is despair in the air around him that she doesn’t quite understand. When Illya does not answer, Solo’s shoulders sink just a fraction and he turns to go back into the kitchen.

“He is my lover, Mother.”

She inhales, a choked gasp. Solo spins back around to stare at Illya in stunned amazement.

“You are…you are one of them, then? I had always suspected. I suppose that is my fault.”

Illya turns to her with a scowl and opens his mouth to speak. Solo beats him to it. “Mrs. Kuryakin…Darya, it is no one’s fault. Illya is a man who fell in love. I am a man who fell in love. How can love, genuine and deep love, ever be considered a fault? There is no one to blame and no one at fault. I love your son with a ferocity that I have never experienced before. I have loved women before, but never like this. Illya is stunning down to his very soul. Loving him is the easiest thing in the universe because he is beautiful. Intelligent, intimidating, talented, kind, gentle, sometimes so confident and sometimes achingly shy. He’s broken, but so I am. Our jagged edges match. Loving him is also the hardest thing in the world because I do not deserve him and I will never be good enough for him. He is so distressingly honorable. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. You did not cause this to happen. I think, perhaps, I know what you mean by that and you’re wrong. What you’ve done in your life did shape Illya. It made him strong, determined, fiercely protective. It taught him that sometimes people sacrifice things to protect those they love. It was a lesson in strength of character. You are probably the strongest woman I’ve ever met. If you’ve done anything to Illya, it was to make him the best of men.”

Darya blinks back tears, overcome by such defense. Solo’s tone borders on vicious, but his eyes and his words speak the truth of his assertions. She hasn’t seen love this profound since she last took into the eyes of Illya’s father. Any hostility that had been building for this man, this capitalist who had seduced her boy (and she finally got the joke now, which means that Teller knows that about…this), dissipates. She wonders how they manage this, how they fit into one another’s lives, how much pain is caused by the need to hide it.

She swallows hard. “All I ever wanted was for my boy to be safe, to be happy, to be loved. You claim to be the CIA’s best agent? You will keep my Illya safe. You claim to love him? You will make him happy. You will do these things. If you fail in either task, I will find you and I will show you what I have learned from living in the shadow of a shamed member of the Kremlin.”

Solo mets her gaze without blinking and nods. His expression is hard, determined, and raw, bare of the charm that she has seen until now. Illya makes an indignant sound in the back of his throat, frowning at the other man. “Napoleon, Mother, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself! I—“

“Illya, I would gladly trade my life for yours. I will gladly spend whatever time I have left proving just how much I love and endeavoring to be worth of your mother’s trust in me. Such a promise is no hardship and has nothing to do with your abilities. So shut up and go set the table.”

Illya blinks at the flatness in Solo’s voice. Darya’s eyebrows creep up. Finally, after a moment of heated staring, Illya snorts out a breath through his nose and goes to do as he’s told. Solo smiles as she gapes at him, before vanishing back into he kitchen. 

She wants to ask them questions. She is Illya’s mother. She deserves to know the answers, but she thinks about the city outside her window and all the people she left behind in the USSR. She thinks about how easily Illya could abandon her if she pushes him too far on something that he will not relinquish and she shuts her mouth.

Solo had not exaggerated his cooking skills. Dinner is delightful. They sit, mostly silent, until the American clears away the debris and returns with a dusty bottle of scotch. “I have been saving this for a special occasion. I think this counts.” He says in Russian, and smiles.

“I speak English, you know.” She feels compelled to point out.

Solo smiles. “I assumed, but Illya is always more comfortable speaking Russian. It helps him stay connected to his roots and I don’t mind. I’m comfortable enough in either language. English is spoken all around us, but Russian is rare in the West.”

Illya turns wide eyes on him. “You never fail to surprise me, Cowboy.” He says in English.

“The day that stops being true, shoot me, would you?”

Illya scowls briefly, but snorts. “I think the day that is true, you will already be dead.”

Solo shrugs and sits at the table. “I’d hope so. I’d never want to bore you, Peril.” He pours three glasses.

Illya watches him fondly for a moment, before turning back to her and speaking Russian. “Mother, you have questions. Ask us.”

She blinks, wondering when she grew so transparent. Solo smiles at her, his eyes dancing. “You’re having dinner with two internationally infamous spies. Don’t worry. We’re quite literally trained to see things others don’t.” He winks.

She chuckles and quells the urge to bat at him. Illya doesn’t. He cuffs Solo gently round the head. Solo laughs and ducks, before sitting down and turning to her.

Her amusement fades and she looks back and forth between them. “How is this possible? It is…not the Russian way, certainly.”

Solo’s face lights up and he turns to Illya, who is glaring at the table. “So that’s where you got that!”

“Shut up, Cowboy.”

Solo grinned unabashedly. “I had wondered why you were so worried about what was and wasn’t the Russian way. Never seemed like a particularly KGB preoccupation.”

Illya turns his glare briefly on his partner, before looking at her. “It is illegal here as well, but unless it is…compromising the assets, the higher ups at work do not care. It helps that Napoleon is a dirty thief and stole our direct superior’s file.”

Solo grins, wide and toothy like a wolf. “I am not a dirty thief. I’m a reacquisition specialist. Waverly knew that when he took me away from the CIA.”

“Like I said. Dirty thief. Who cares very little for what is legal and what is not.”

Solo shrugs with one shoulder and takes a sip of scotch. “I don’t know why anyone was surprised by this. I would have even let him know about it if you hadn’t outed us in his office.”

Illya turns back to him with narrowed eyes. “And I was meant to know that he spoke Russian, how?”

Solo arches an eyebrow. She glances back and forth between them, wondering how they’d gone from gentle and devoted to sarcastic and angry in such a short time. “Like the rest of us. You open your eyes and observe. And barring that, steal a file or two. How do you think I found out about you?”

Illya’s lip curls back and Darya begins to worry genuinely for the safety of the furniture. Both of his hands are visible though and neither is shaking or tapping. Always a good sign. “Like I said. Dirty thief. _Gaby_ did not steal any records. Only you.”

Solo smirks and leans forward. “Oh didn’t she?”

Illya blinks rapidly for a few beats and then stares at Solo. “You…”

“The morning she came over and found us in the kitchen? When I let you two quiz me about my own file and my history with the CIA and the US army? I never gave it to her. She stole it. Or asked Waverly straight out. I have no idea which.”

Illya laughs, helpless. “You are like a disease, Cowboy. You spread corruption anywhere you go.”

“And you love me for it.” Solo smiles and darts forward to press a kiss to the corner of Illya’s mouth. He is just pulling back when he freezes, seeming to remember that Darya is still in the room. He sits back in his chair, the smooth smile that he’d worn at the airport back on his face. 

Illya sees this and flushes dully, dropping his eyes back to the table. 

“My apologies, Mrs. Kuryakin.”

Darya raises her eyebrows at him. “Whatever for? And please, call me Darya. If you’re to be…” She waves a vague hand at Illya. “Then call me Darya.”

Solo smiles, slow and genuine, and says, “You can call me Napoleon, if you’d like.”

Illya turns sharply to stare at him with wide eyes. He swallows thickly and she frowns at him. “Illyushenka? What is wrong?”

Illya blinks and shakes his head, still staring at Napoleon. “Nothing, Mother. It’s…”

Napoleon huffs out a breath and his smile turns rueful. “No one calls me Napoleon, except Illya and then only rarely. The only person who ever called me by my given name with any regularity was my mother.”

She stares at him and understands Illya’s reaction. She thinks about how they interact. How different Illya is with Napoleon. Little things that only a mother would notice. The touches, the looks, the proximity. She thinks that they are perhaps very apt at hiding this. She knows, the Teller girl knows, and Agent Waverly knows. She thinks perhaps that might be it. She wonders if Illya would ever have told her voluntarily. She wonders how man people who react as favorably as she and the Teller girl have.

Not many, she thinks. She wants them to be happy. She wants them to be safe.

She watches the way Illya looks at Napoleon. Not like he’s hung the moon. More like he’s given Illya the greatest gift he’s ever received. Napoleon looks back like Illya has filled up his entire life, like Illya has emptied him out and refilled him with something new and strange and terrifying.

She knows those feelings. She misses them fiercely. She misses her husband, Illya’s father, with an ache so deep she feels it for a moment in her bones.

They are no longer in the Soviet Union. Illya and his Napoleon are spies, trained to hide and obfuscate and kill if necessary. They will be discrete and nothing will happen to them.

They would be fine. She would give them a safe place to come and be themselves and they would all be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the final one. I'm tapped out for this storyline. Thanks for reading :D


End file.
